


Of Magic, Murder, and the Madman

by sadieb798



Series: Of Curses and Madness [2]
Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Demons, Humor, M/M, Magic, Murder, Old Man! John, cases, howl's moving castle crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was all a bit bizarre to say the least. Sure he got excited like this at all the weird cases, but whenever John said something, or caught on with his erratic train of thought, Sherlock got this gleam in his eye. I’ve known Sherlock for five years, but in all the years I’ve known him, Sherlock has never displayed an interest in a living, breathing person before. At the time, if I hadn’t know him better, I’d have said Sherlock Holmes was smitten.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which John accompanies Sherlock to his first crime scene

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

**IN WHICH JOHN ACCOMPANIES SHERLOCK TO HIS FIRST CRIME SCENE**

  

You may recall, from much earlier on, of the subject that was broached of how each person knew that Sherlock and John’s association meant that their lives would change for the better. How did they know this exactly? Simply because they knew Sherlock, and knew how he acted; what was customary and what was unusual (or as close as would be unusual when it came to Sherlock for  _everyone_  thought that he was unusual even by wizard standards).

In particular, DI Gregory Lestrade knew things would change the day he met John, which also happened to be the day that John and Sherlock went to their first crime scene together.

Looking back on it, Lestrade only chuckles to himself and shakes his head.

“It was all a bit bizarre to say the least. Sherlock normally would breeze in on his own, make his deductions then go off, insulting the Yard on his way out; like a tornado of insults and detection. But that day, here he comes to the crime scene with an  _old man_  of all people! I thought that John was somehow relevant to the case, but it was the exact opposite: Sherlock had that poor old geezer bending down to his knees to help with the body when I had a perfectly good forensics team on standby!

“It really irked me that Sherlock was forcing this old man to do that--but then that old man turned out to be John so it turned out all right in the end. But at the time...It was clear that for some strange reason, Sherlock was  _fascinated_  by this man. It took some time, but I realized that ever since he and John had stepped into that alleyway, Sherlock radiated good energy.

“Sure he got excited like this at all the weird cases, but whenever John said something, or caught on with his erratic train of thought, Sherlock got this  _gleam_  in his eye. I’ve known Sherlock for five years--bloody bastard has barely aged, while  _I’m_  a different story--but in all the years I’ve known him, Sherlock has  _never_  displayed an interest in a living, breathing person before. That, you know, had nothing to do with a case. Hell this was the first time he’d ever brought anyone to a crime scene before--that alone must have meant  _something_. At the time, if I hadn’t know him better, I’d have said Sherlock Holmes was  _smitten.”_

This is what occurred.

* * *

 

Imagine for the moment, you’re home--wherever that place might be: a country home while it’s raining outside, a cramped apartment in the city in the sweltering heat. You go to open the door of your home, but instead of seeing the familiar view outside your front door that you had grown accustomed to over the years, you find yourself staring out at some place else. Some place you’ve never seen before.

This was the position in which John found himself that morning.

He had opened the door to the castle, expecting the heather fields of Market Chipping that he knew so well to greet him--only to be hit full in the face by a variety of smells, including fish, cool air and salt.

John’s mouth hung open. He hardly knew where to look; there was so much to look at! There were people everywhere! It was like Market Chipping, with the crowds and the shouting and bickering and haggling, but with a few differences. Everywhere he looked, there were people milling about, a slight breeze that brought with it the smell of salt, the decaying aroma of fish, and even by Market Chipping’s standards, the noise was deafening with the combined sounds of bells ringing, chatter, shouting, and bird calls.

He looked up at the sky; it was a cloudless gray blue, speckled with giant white birds with long wings and beaks that took to the air, crying loudly. He followed them until he saw something that completely took his breath away.

It was the sea.

Or at least, John thought it was the sea. But surely it must’ve been; it looked just like how it had in books he’d read back in school, with the black and white drawings and paintings and descriptions that accompanied it. John had never seen the sea before and was taken aback by the beauty of it. It stretched on for miles and miles--he wasn’t sure if it really had an end to it or even what color it was, as it changed continuously from a deep blue to a light, foamy green.

John was so entranced by all that was around him, that he hadn’t heard his name being called until the third or fourth time it was called out.

John looked up to see that the wizard Sherlock was a good distance ahead of him, on top of the sloped street and was turned toward him, calling his name.

John turned back toward the door, but found it already closed, so instead, with his cane in hand trudged upward.

Sherlock did not move until John was by his side, and then resumed his walk.

“Okay you’ve got questions,” Sherlock stated after some silence.

“Yes,” John said, “Where are we?”

“Porthaven,” Sherlock said, as if it were natural to be in one place, then reappear in an entirely different part of the country nowhere near where you were when you began. But perhaps that was normal in the life of a wizard, John thought.

“Ah,” John said instead. “And, ah,  _how_  did we get to Porthaven?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” asked the wizard, turning to look at John. When John failed to understand, Sherlock turned to look at him, very sarcastically, and, along with a waggling of fingers in John’s face, said “ _Magic_.”

Sherlock turned back to looking ahead and walking. He then added, as though an afterthought, “It’s an enchantment Calcifer has on the castle. It allows it to be in four different places all at once.”

“That’s extraordinary!” cried John, amazed.

Sherlock’s gaze flicked toward John from the corner of his eyes. Then his gaze returned to staring ahead.

“So where are we going?” John continued.

“Crime scene.”

“Yeah, but why?” asked John. “Aren’t you a wizard? What is it you’re expected to do at a crime scene?”

“I am a wizard,” Sherlock began. “But I am also a consulting detective.”

“Which means, what exactly?”

“It means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they call upon me.”

A question was on the tip of John’s tongue, but then Sherlock unexpectedly turned left, his frock cloak trailing behind him. John limped after him. Sherlock led him to what was obviously the shipping yard, going by the fact that there were several boats and a crowd of people gathered around an alleyway that was blocked off by constables.

Sherlock strode ahead, as though he were entitled to be there; neither put off by the sight of the crowd or the constables. In fact a small path had cleared within the crowd as Sherlock stepped closer; thus giving Sherlock the luxury of not having to fight his way through like John had.

The constable closest to Sherlock gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgement, and though the head jiggle was polite enough, it was clearly evidenced by the man’s face that he did not want Sherlock there; in fact there seemed to be some terror in the man’s eyes when he caught sight of the wizard.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock said before the officer even had a chance to ask John when he approached. The officer nodded again in understanding.

Confused, John followed as Sherlock led them into the entrance of the dark alley.

“Oh no,” said a woman coming toward them from the darkness. As the light hit her face, John noted the ferocity there as her mouth was turned down in disapprovement, her eyebrows knit together, and her dark eyes blazing. Her dark brown curls flew behind her as she marched toward them with purpose. John would have thought her pretty if not for the fact that in this moment he found her quite threatening.

“Ah Sally,” greeted Sherlock, with a mirthless smirk and a tone dripping in sarcasm. “A pleasure to see you again.”

An obvious lie that fooled no one.

“What are you doing here?” Sally asked, standing in front of them, arms crossed across her chest and her eyebrows quirked.

“Lestrade summoned me,” Sherlock answered, his clear eyes looking her over.

Sally’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “ _Why?_ ” She spat out.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered, pausing briefly as though to consider it. “Probably wants me to take a look.”

Sally continued to stare at him with seething fury. Sherlock met her stare with cold indifference. It was like a pool of molten lava rolling on to a frozen wasteland, and about just as effective.

John stood there awkwardly, watching the exchange before he cleared his throat.

Sally’s attention was diverted at the sound, and she noticed John for the first time. Her brown eyes looked him up and down, an eyebrow quirked in confusion. “I’m sorry sir,” she said, when she deemed him as harmless (and, as Sherlock would only be too happy to inform you, John Watson is anything but). “This area is restricted to civilians.”

“He’s old Sergeant, not stupid,” Sherlock said blandly. “He’s with me.”

It took a moment for John to remember that he was at least three times his original age. Odd that he kept forgetting that. As though to punctuate that point, the joints in his back ached with a dulled pain.

Sally stared back at Sherlock in disbelief. “You? Why would he be with _you?”_

“He’s a colleague,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“A colleague?” Sally echoed, her mouth quirking in an amused smile. John frowned incomprehensibly; he didn’t understand why she found what Sherlock had said to be funny. “Since when do  _you_ have a colleague?”

John, growing tired with the exchange, and frustrated with the fact that there was a  _dead body_  in the middle of an alley and these two were just standing here  _bickering_ , while there was a killer on the loose, interrupted pointedly. “Sorry I believe there was a dead body that you wanted us to look at?”

The full focus of both gazes turned to John in an instant. Sally’s with that same fury and some confusion. Sherlock’s was filled with something John couldn’t identify.

After a beat, and a roll of her eyes, Sally turned on her heel and clip-clopped ahead of them; Sherlock followed on her heels breezily, and John limped behind them.

The alley was narrow, barely allowing three people to stand side-by-side--but as our trio was doing no such thing, that hardly mattered--and ominous. Darkness shrouded them like a coverlet. It wasn’t until they were farther along the alley that sudden light erupted on the scene. John blinked as his eyes adjusted to the lanterns that were balanced on stands with uniformed officers milling around. All were in agreement that the alley was not as roomy as everyone would have liked, nor ideal for retrieving a body.

Dead center of the gritty alley lay the baker.

Sherlock stopped just in front of the body and John followed suit.

John licked his lips. It’d been some time since he’d seen a body and he was a bit surprised to find how comforting it felt to have someone dead at his feet once again.

The baker was at one time a handsome man. He’d had at one point dazzled nearly half the women of Market Chipping with his charming personality, good looks, and delicious croissants. When the police had broken up his smuggling ring--which was what the codes in the pies were: lists of items that held instructions for both pick up and delivery--it was then that the baker lost everything.

In the twelve years that he’d been locked away in prison and since John had seen him, the baker had lost all the hair on his head, and gained an atrocious amount of weight. His good looks were gone all together. John figured that his personality had not held up either due to the fact that he was lying face-up in a pool of his own blood on the floor of a dirty alley.

The pool of blood had spilt due to the large slit in the man’s throat. His eyes were open in horror.

“Ah Sherlock,” John jumped slightly at the new voice. The Inspector with grey hair from earlier approached them, followed closely behind by Sergeant Sally. John hadn’t even noticed she’d gone. “Thanks for coming,” he said with some relief. Sherlock hummed in greeting.

“How long has the body been here?” He asked.

“Couple of hours; pathologist puts the time of death to around midnight.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“Some kids found him,” The Inspector said, confirming an unasked question.

Sherlock remained silent.

John noticed after some time that around them, a hush had fallen over the crowd of officers. John turned his focus back on Sherlock. The wizard looked entranced; as though lost in a world of his own. His clear blue eyes moved rapidly as he studied the scene. Every so often, he would tilt his head fractionally on either side, as though this allowed him to look at the scene from all angles. He pulled out a pair of gloves from some innermost pocket of his cloak and snapped them on. He flicked the tails of his cloak away from him as he crouched downward.

John, staring in fascination, was suddenly reminded of a cat stalking it’s prey and at the same time, a bloodhound on the chase. It was like some sort of interpretive dance, a performance. Sherlock took one of the baker’s big hands in his own, and examined each crack in the man’s fingernails, analyzing the faded scars etched into his hand, seemingly to catalog it all. He inspected each part of the baker and the alley with as much precision and attention as he had shown to the dead man’s hands. At one point, he’d even gone so far as to climb on to both rooftops of the buildings that made up the alley to inspect the area. Around him, everyone was silent. John appeared to be the only one holding his breath; as though one inhale of breath would break Sherlock’s concentration. While in contrast, each officer was otherwise engaged in some form of self-grooming; others checking their pocket-watches for the time. But as a whole looking quite bored.

Sherlock paused only a few times to ask the Inspector--whose name was Lestrade, John learned moments later--a question or two, or to confirm something.

Finally he stood up. The movement was so sudden and sharp, that it caught everyone off guard. A sudden smirk spread across his face, as though he was immensely satisfied. It was like a predatory smile that suited a crocodile better than a human being.

“Well?” Asked Lestrade after a continued silence.

“Obvious what we’re looking for,” Sherlock rumbled, as though it were nothing.

“Sorry, obvious?” asked John dubiously.

Lestrade had forgotten about the funny little old man in the cardigan and cane.

“John what do you think?” Sherlock asked as he rounded on his companion, eyes focusing intently on him. His stare wasn’t alone; curiosity had awoken in all the surrounding officers and they were staring as well.

“Of what?” John’s brow furrowed in confusion, the officers’ newfound interest was not lost on him.

“You’ve been in the army,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, though how he’d guessed that, John hadn’t a clue. If he’d noticed the officers stares, Sherlock wasn’t acknowledging it. Instead all his focus was on John; it was as though it were just him and John, and no one else. “Seen a lot of death. Plenty of dead bodies; several wounds.” He swept aside gracefully, his cloak fluttering slightly with the movement of it so that John could take in the whole scene for himself. “Tell me what you think.”

His eyes never left John’s face.

“Hang on a tick, I’ve got a whole team that can do that--” Lestrade began.

“Yes and they won’t work with me,” Sherlock reminded him, eyes locked on John.

“Yeah but--”

“Do you want this case solved or not, Inspector?” Sherlock snapped sharply and impatiently.

John turned his gaze from Sherlock to Lestrade, his face asking for permission.

“Oh for the love of..” Lestrade exhaled tiredly, his hand scrubbing at his face. “Alright. Fine! He can have a look.” Beside him, Sally bristled angrily. As though sensing her anger, which admittedly was difficult to ignore, Lestrade turned and, with her in tow, stalked off.

Sherlock bent back down beside the body. His eyes staring up at John as if waiting for him to duplicate what he’d just done. John groaned inwardly, and with some difficulty, joined him on the ground.

“What is it I’m meant to be doing?” John whispered, noting the returning stares of the officers.

“Helping me identify the wound,” Sherlock whispered back, with some amusement in his voice and a glimmer of something in his eyes.

“I’m not a doctor,” John said, frowning.

“No, but you know wounds. You know death and the different ways to end a life,” Sherlock explained, his eyes practically sparkling. “Therefore you can identify the type of knife that was used to end the baker’s life.”

John stared. Sherlock stared back. They continued to stare at each other for some time. John finally sighed, and fixed the baker with a look.

The separated skin on the baker’s throat had been cut evenly; the cut was so smooth and swift, that killing him would have taken only one stroke.

“The knife would have had to have been something with a smooth, but sharpened edge,” John said after a time.

“Good,” Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on John, fingertips together and steepled under his chin.

John stared back down at the body. “Had to have been..twelve inches long, going by the size. Thin blade, but with a curve, I should say.”

“Just as I was thinking,” Sherlock supplied.

John frowned. He knew this wound; it tickled the edge of his memory.

“This knife is used mostly for close-combat killing.” He paused in thought as the memory of it hit him full in the face. “This is an assassin's knife!” John exclaimed in sudden realization.

A smile lit up Sherlock’s face. “Excellent John! Yes! Exactly!” He said with pride. Pleasure at his companion’s praise bubbled up in John’s gut.

“But.” John frowned in puzzlement. “Why would an assassin target a baker?”

Before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade had returned. “Okay Sherlock, I’m going to need everything you’ve got.” He said.

Sherlock blinked before standing elegantly. John stood using the aid of his cane, looking very clumsy in comparison. Then again, he  _was_  a seventy-five year old man, so nobody held that against him.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and in one breath said, “You’re looking for a man, short in stature but agile.” Before Lestrade could ask how Sherlock knew that, he was off again like a rocket, “Small, size eight footprints all around here; including on top of both rooftops. While in comparison our baker has remarkably large feet and was running, judging by his footprints leading up to this point. So who was trying to kill him? A small man, who is trained to scale buildings and leap about from rooftop to rooftop--what sort of man is that? Trained circus performer.” 

“Who murders people,” John pointed out thoughtfully. Sherlock seemed to brighten with it as he continued.

“Ah so a trained circus performer who moonlights as an assassin for hire. Conclusion: our assassin was tailing the baker for some time, jumping from rooftop to rooftop in order to apprehend him. Our baker had thought he had lost his would-be killer in this alley. He thought wrong. The assassin was hiding on the rooftops, lulling his prey into a false sense of security before he attacked. He scaled down the walls, snuck up behind his enemy and slit his throat in one swift cut.”

Once again silence fell, but this time it was a stunned silence.

“You got all that from footprints?” Lestrade asked in disbelief, quirking an eyebrow.

“Brilliant,” John murmured quietly. Sherlock glowed.

“Okay so where is our killer now?” Lestrade asked.

“Gone with the night,” Sherlock responded. “Miles away by now, I imagine.”

“Well that’s just great,” Lestrade asked. He seriously wanted to pull out his hair with the frustration of it all.

“But don’t worry,” Sherlock continued, gaze shifting back to Lestrade. “I know a man who can catch him.”

“Who?”

“Me,” Sherlock smiled cheekily. The bastard, thought Lestrade.

With that, Sherlock turned briskly and started back to the entrance of the alley, cloak trailing dramatically behind him. “Come along John,” his voice echoed along the alley's walls.

With a slight smile and a nod of thanks, that little old man hobbled behind the detective.

“What the fuck was that about,” Lestrade couldn’t help but ask as he watched the strange duo exit the crime scene.


	2. And then has tea in the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just this,” John pounded his leg firmly with his fist, “damn thing...” he trailed off, not sure of what else to say.  
> “I understand dear,” she said warmly, “I’ve got a hip.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter was tough to crank out! Not so much because of this bit, but for what I want to happen after this bit that was stalling this from being uploaded. I finally thought, "what the hell, this is still good", and so here we are.  
> Apologies if my writing has suddenly taken on an odd tangent, I'm reading Stephen Fry and Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series and find them both influencing my writing somewhat, so sincere apologies about that.  
> Thank you all for the lovely comments you leave here, they help me so much and give me faith that people are actually pleased with my writing and that the story's one worth continuing! :)

**  
CHAPTER TWO**

**AND THEN HAS TEA IN THE CASTLE**

 

As they approached the street John recognized for where they had begun, he realized he hadn’t even taken notice as to the exact whereabouts of the castle. It occurred to John, obviously, that they wouldn’t go by unnoticed if they entered a giant iron castle--after all, people tended to notice if there was a gargantuan beast made of metal in front of their noses and two blokes wandering in to it--and had begun to wonder where _exactly_ the castle was. He was shocked, however, to find that Sherlock had approached the tall, narrow door that he initially recognized as the entrance to the castle.

The door that Sherlock stopped at was in the middle of a collection of cream-colored, two-story houses crammed together like books on a crowded bookshelf. Due to the rise of the hill, the houses all were jointly leaning on top of each other slanting downwards toward the left.

The house they stood before was not in the least bit extraordinary to look at; in fact it was very bland in the bundle of the other bland-looking houses. John had thought, quite rightly of course, that given Sherlock’s outlandish personality that the castle would have stuck out like a sore thumb above the hubbub of the sea market.

It was frightening to think that if he hadn’t been with Sherlock, he would not have even given a second glance at the door and would have no doubt been lost forever in Porthaven just stumbling about, looking for a castle that for all he knew might have been in his imagination.

Sherlock twisted the knob to the familiar door expertly and swung against the door into the castle gracefully before going through.

Once Sherlock had allowed him inside, John shut the door behind him and watched with some amusement and wonder at Sherlock weave between each tower of books toward the fireplace elegantly. John noticed that the only light in the room came from the glowing hearth, which barely illuminated the large room at all. He frowned, he was sure he had seen windows when he woke that morning. He glanced around and sure enough there they stood, beside either side of the door, with blinds drawn down, omitting sunlight.

“Back so soon?” The old woman--what was her name? Mrs. Hanson? Hopson? Hudson!--asked from beside the fire’s hearth.

“Just came back for a few things,” Sherlock responded, smiling absently. She smiled softly, and returned to puttering about both from beneath the stairwell and near the fireplace.

“A good case, eh?” Calcifer asked, burning brightly in the hearth as his flames danced.

“The _best,”_ Sherlock confirmed, eyes shining. John had picked his way through the debris of the castle and at that point stood beside the table piled with papers and what he knew to be a human skull. He began to move books and papers and other such things from the table and bench, trying to clear enough space to sit down while his hosts talked.

“An assassin?” Calcifer asked excitedly, his eyes shining just as bright. John, at last clearing what he deemed a suitable amount of debris, sat down; his bones creaked and his leg groaned as he did so. He placed his hands on the handle of his cane and watched the two of them in their exchange. Calcifer continued to burn in the hearth, while Sherlock had turned his attention to a large, polished dark ebony wardrobe beside the stairs landing that John hadn’t noticed before. Sherlock opened one of the wardrobe's double-doors and thrust almost his whole body into it.

“Yes, with the knife missing and has the ability to scale rooftops,” Sherlock continued from the wardrobe as he brimmed with an energy that burned just as brightly as the fire demon.

“Ah but he’s missing,” Calcifer reminded him, in a somewhat teasing tone as his eyes glittered with amusement.

“A minor detail,” Sherlock said dismissively with a wave of his hand and a frown in his voice from the depths of the wardrobe.

John stared, stunned. How on _earth_ did Calcifer know so much about the crime? Sherlock hadn’t told him anything; he had been here the entire time and hadn’t heard so much as a peep! Besides, he would have noticed. But now that John thought about it, Calcifer and Sherlock had done this much earlier before they had left for the crime scene. John gaped at the pair of them, wondering how the hell they _did_ that.

“How the hell do you _do_ that?” he asked them.

“Years of practice,” Sherlock said in what John thought was an automatic response as he emerged from the wardrobe with a dark cloak in his hand. Calcifer chuckled, his movement sending glowing cinders up the chimney, and Sherlock gave a ghost of a smile in return. Evidently it was a sort of inside joke between the two. John frowned when it became obvious Sherlock wasn’t going to elaborate.

John decided to change the subject.

“How’re we supposed to catch this killer if we’re just sitting around here?” John asked.

“Wrong. _Not_ ‘we’,” Sherlock corrected as he shut the wardrobe’s door. “Me _._ _You_ are staying right here.”

John was quite taken aback by the order, to say the least.

“Any theories, Sherlock?” Calcifer asked, going back to their previous conversation, ignoring John. The soldier stared, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Three or four. Possibly five,” Sherlock answered, also ignoring John, turning slightly toward the demon. John’s jaw dropped.

They continued to ignore John like a set-piece as though the decision had been made and not worth any further discussion. Now it was probably all very fine and well for wizards and demons to be rude and not give a second thought to an issue involving a third party, but it was _not--_ under any circumstances--fine to John.

And he made a point in saying so.

“No, wait, hang on,” he said, very much offended. “Why _not_ we? Why do I have to stay here?”

“Much too dangerous,” Sherlock responded, the cloak was now folded and draped over his arm as he turned back to face John. “Far too dangerous for someone of your disposition.”

“And what ‘disposition’ might that be?” John asked, gritting his teeth in agitation.

“An old man with a limp,” Sherlock replied frankly.

“But I’m _not_ an old man with a limp--” John began to point out, remembering he could discuss such things with those who knew about the curse, of whom, if you recall, Sherlock and Calcifer were the lone affiliates. It wasn't exactly a rapidly-growing club.

“No, just an ex-soldier with a curse and a psychosomatic limp,” Sherlock finished swiftly for him. He met John’s gaze then, glass-like orbs meeting dark blue. “Hardly better though, wouldn’t you say?” He clipped out.

John seethed. He opened his mouth to make a counterpoint, but before he could say anything, Sherlock breezed purposefully past him, through the forest of books to the door of the castle.

“Settle in, John,” he called from the door. “Make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea. Popping out.”

The door closed authoritatively behind him, like the final stamp required to make a document an official one.

John pursed his lips in anger. He could not, for the life of him, understand _why_ it was that he was being left behind. His leg felt it was crucial that John remember _exactly_ why and so sent a sharp jolt of pain through his body at that precise moment as a reminder (his leg was nothing if not punctual in timing). Anger bubbled up from John’s abdomen as he grit his teeth while he rode out the pain like a tidal wave. Oh yeah. He remembered why he was being left behind: it was because he was useless in this state.

“Look at him, always dashing about,” Mrs. Hudson said in fond exasperation after Sherlock. She came over to the table where John sat, and began to try to organize the chaos that surrounded them.

“My husband was just the same,” she continued. John, in his introverted anger, ignored her absentmindedly. But she needed no prompting, as she kept on for conversation’s sake. “But you’re more the sitting-down-type, I can tell,” she looked at him, as though evaluating him. 

An odd pause followed. 

Then Mrs. Hudson straightened, an idea taking hold of her. “I’ll make you that cuppa, dear,” she said, “you rest your leg.”

She gave him a soft pat on the shoulder in passing as she turned away back toward the stairs.

That was when John exploded.

“Damn my leg!” He bellowed, causing Mrs. Hudson to flinch massively before she spun on her heel to peer at him. Calcifer puffed up in size from his place in the hearth, not unlike that of a cat when faced with a potential threat. “I’m sorry,” John apologized immediately, shocked at himself. “I am _so_ sorry.”

Mrs. Hudson was silent, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion and concern filling in her features.

“It’s just this,” John pounded his leg firmly with his fist, “damn thing...” he trailed off, not sure of what else to say.

Mrs. Hudson stared at John, confusion in her eyes. Then she looked from John’s eyes to his leg, and back again. Understanding suddenly flooded her face as realization hit. “I understand dear,” she said warmly, “I’ve got a hip.”

There was a long pause that hung in the air of the castle. John, embarrassed at his outburst, did not wish to say anything. The only sounds that filled the air were Calcifer’s flames crackling in the hearth, and the faint noises of the sea market just outside their door. Though the noisy market was just outside their door, the sound was muffled. John supposed the clamor was muffled by the thick walls of the castle.

When faced with tense times such as these back in Market Chipping, John’s stepmother would suggest tea to break the ice, and John thought that that was the best course of action to take. He was about to propose tea when Mrs. Hudson spoke.

“It’s strange getting old, isn’t it?” She asked giving him a small, unsure smile.

John blinked at her.

That was certainly a turn in conversation.

She took on a wistful, far away look, as she continued to stare at him. John allowed her time to collect her thoughts.

“I feel young on the inside,” she began, “and sometimes I forget that I’m not twenty-two anymore until I feel a twinge in my hip,” she brushed her side absentmindedly. “Or catch myself in the mirror, or look down at my hands,” she slightly dipped her chin and stared down at her blue veined knuckles. “And then I remember,” she said, smiling a little sadly.

John blinked.

“Funny how the years just fly by, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling with mirth this time.

And then John realized what she was talking about.

The curse.

To everyone around him, aside from Sherlock and Calcifer, he was a seventy-five year old man and they thought nothing else of it. He was just an ordinary old man, with pains in his joints, the years engraved on his face, and a wandering head. Mrs. Hudson was right.

It _was_ strange getting old.

“You have no idea,” John murmured.

* * *

“Tell me, how did you end up in the castle?” John asked some time later, as he sipped his hot cup of tea.

John sat at the workbench, while Mrs. Hudson sat across from him in a straight-backed chair that she had pulled over--"For my back, dear," she had explained--and both were sipping their tea that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for them as they chatted amiably.

“Oh, now _there_ ’s a story!” Calcifer exclaimed in excited amusement from his place in the hearth just four feet away from them.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and said fondly to the demon “Another time, Calcifer,” before she took another sip of tea.

“Aww c'mon!” Calcifer groaned loudly, slouching in obvious disappointment. Mrs. Hudson tittered. “I don’t hear it enough!” the fire demon complained, trying to win his case. “And John’s never heard it!”

“No, you don’t want to hear that story, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said to John, reaching out a hand and patting his arm.

John disagreed, he _did_ very much want to hear that story. But instead he said, “Can I at least have an overview?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly and indulged him, much like a grandmother would with her grandson and sugary sweets.

“After my husband died, I had no other family to care for,” She said as she took a tentative sip of her tea. “And while Sherlock was working on my husband’s case, I had begun to think of him as a son. So when Harold--my husband--died, Sherlock offered me the housekeeping position here in the castle.”

She took a deeper sip of her tea.

John frowned.

“So he offered you a _job_ in response to your husband’s death?” John gripped the teacup’s handle tightly. He was outraged at the wizard’s lack of compassion. “The sodding...” he began quietly.

“Oh, no, dear! Don’t misunderstand him!” Mrs. Hudson said hurriedly, looking fretful as she set her teacup down onto its saucer that was balanced on her lap and used the other hand to place on John’s.

“Sherlock, the silly boy, is all logic,” she shook her head slightly to show her exasperation with the wizard in question. “He sees a problem, and he takes it into his head to solve it. Much like he does with all his puzzles.” She sat back in her seat, and smiled affectionately, looking very much like a mother speaking lovingly of her child.

“He saw a lonely old lady without a home and offered her one in the guise of a job. He doesn’t think of the emotions behind such a gesture, because he refuses to _see_ the them. To him, it’s all simple logic: He needed a housekeeper, I needed a place to stay as well as employment, and so he offered me a job that just happens to be in a castle.” She laughed softly.

After a time, she looked back up at John, her chocolate brown eyes meeting his. Something that John couldn’t identify glittered in them. It might have been amusement, or something relative to it.

“I expect he’ll do the same with you,” she said factually as she took another sip of tea.

John frowned. “What? Offer me a job?”

“He _did_ say he needed an assistant,” she reminded him.

“I thought you were a cleaning-person,” Calcifer piped up, both figuratively and literally.

“I don’t think so,” John said, taking a sip of his tea.

He was seriously reconsidering his decision to stay in the castle. Deal or no deal with Calcifer, if he was going to keep being left behind like this, he would never be able to break Calcifer’s contract with Sherlock or figure out his own curse. And John didn’t so much mind being an old man, it was as Mrs. Hudson had said. It just took time to getting used to, and he’d come to remember it from time to time--it wasn’t exactly _hard_ to forget when his leg or his other joints would twinge every so often in reminder.

“By the way dear, I didn’t even ask,” Mrs. Hudson said, drawing John suddenly out of his reverie. “Are you hungry? I am so embarrassed! I only just now remembered you didn’t eat this morning, and here we are, nearing lunchtime--”

John’s stomach growled loudly in answer.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I’ll see what we’ve got in the cupboard,” she said turning away as John’s ears reddened.

He took another sip of tea and watched as Mrs. Hudson approached the polished wardrobe Sherlock had poked about in earlier.

He wondered what could be in there.

Curiosity taking hold of him, John set his tea down onto the table and using all his strength, stood with his cane before he limped over to Mrs. Hudson’s side.

“Oh I’m sorry dear, we’ve only got bread and cheese--” she said apologetically, looking over toward the bench where John had sat, but instead found him peeking over her shoulder.

John’s jaw dropped.

The inside of the wardrobe was deep, and cavernous--there didn’t seem to be a back to the wardrobe in sight. There were shelves upon shelves stocked with food, blankets, linens and other such nonsense, while further down the lined shelves, it looked to John like clothes on hangers dangling from a bar as though the farthest stretch of the elongated wardrobe were a walk-in cupboard. John poked his head around to the outside of the wardrobe, running his calloused fingers along the smooth, polished surface. He stuck his hand behind the wardrobe and, not expecting to, was shocked to find the hard wooden surface that was the back of the wardrobe. He hobbled past Mrs. Hudson, before she completely stepped out of his way and repeated the process on the other side and found the back to the wardrobe there as well. He studied every inch of the wardrobe as best he could for a full two minutes and found that, contrary to his eyes and the inside of the deep wardrobe, on the outside the wardrobe was only an ordinary wardrobe, with nothing exceptional about it at all (apart from the polished surface of the dark ebony wood that is).

He took a step back, standing directly in front of the wardrobe, transfixed at the sight before him with a dangling mouth.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” he murmured in disbelief.

Calcifer cackled from the hearth.

“That’s just what _you_ said!” He exclaimed to Mrs. Hudson, cackling gleefully and loudly as he hooted with laughter. She frowned and waved a hand at him in response.

A corner inside the wardrobe caught John’s eye. He opened the wardrobe’s doubled-doors, while balancing precariously against his cane to discover that what it was was a basket of eggs, bacon and sausages.

“There’s meat and eggs in here,” John said looking at Mrs. Hudson, who fidgeted under his scrutiny.

“Yes,” she said, averting his gaze.

“You said there was only bread and cheese,” John pointed out.

Her cheeks burned in obvious embarrassment, and John immediately felt bad. “Sherlock is the only one Calcifer lets cook,” Mrs. Hudson replied as though that explanation were enough and it may have well been if John were more acquainted with life in the castle.

John only frowned, not understanding her meaning in the slightest. “But I saw you make tea--” he began.

“Calcifer won’t bend his head down for anyone but Sherlock,” she explained. “He’ll only bow his head for me to make tea and _only_ tea.”

John looked back toward the hearth where the fire demon in question sat, burning brightly and looking quite smug with himself.

“So you can’t even eat unless Sherlock’s here?” He asked incredulously, turning his gaze back to the old woman.

“Yup!” Calcifer answered complacently from the hearth, with a large impudent grin on his face. “And Sherlock doesn’t eat most days!”

“So what do you do for food?” asked John, looking quickly to Mrs. Hudson and giving her a once-over. Now that he looked, she _did_ look quite thin for her age.

“Oh don’t worry dear!” She replied quickly, “I just have a bit of some nibbles--”

“This is ridiculous!” John said turning away from both of them. No wonder Mrs. Hudson looked so frail, she was probably malnourished! He spotted a frying pan hanging on a nail inside the wardrobe on a wall close to the doubled-doors. So taking the large skillet in hand, settling the basket of food from the floor’s handle onto the crook of his arm, John marched as best as he could with a limp purposefully toward the fire.

Calcifer’s dark eyes widened when he saw the blazing look of determination in John’s dark blue eyes. “Oh no,” he protested, backing as far away as he could from John, which is to say, not very far. “No-- _no_ \--stay away from me!”

“Come on Calcifer,” John said enticingly, setting the basket down slowly as he stood before the fire, the skillet in his hand slightly raised. He approached the demon as he would an animal in the wild that he was charged with the task of taming. “You've got to admit this is ridiculous--”

“It is _not_ ridiculous!” Calcifer cried. “It’s my _head_ that you want to put that bloody thing on!” If John hadn’t known better he’d have said that Calcifer was perspiring with anxiety, but he supposed it was wishful thinking for him to see the demon so on edge.

“Calcifer,” John’s voice took on a dangerous edge to it, his tone suddenly reverberating back to his Captain Watson voice he often had to use in his army days. The fire demon shook his head frantically, his eyes squeezed tight. “You’ll do this, or I’ll pour water on you--or take away your logs, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Make me!” Calcifer cried.

Without a word, John slammed the skillet down, expecting a clang from the iron making contact. He had planned on distracting the fire demon long enough to put the skillet on his head, but Calcifer was fast and _strong_. His bright orange flames licked the sides of the pan, like fingers grasping the skillet tightly, causing the pan to heat as he and John engaged in a battle of wills. It was quite a sight, really: John forcing the skillet down with all his body weight transferred into one hand as he used the other to keep balanced on his cane, while Calcifer returned, struggling a bit trying to match John’s strength, as he pushed upwards against the bottom of the skillet and fighting against John.

 _“Come. On. Calcifer.”_ John said through gritted teeth as he held his ground and continued to try and force the pan onto the demon’s head. “You. Let. Mrs. Hudson. Make _tea._ Why. Can’t you. Let us. _Cook_ \--”

“She’s _only_ allowed to make _tea!”_ Calcifer said, struggling against the wrought-iron skillet. “We agreed to this _years_ ago!”

“I certainly did not!” Mrs. Hudson bristled, huffing indignantly from where she stood beside John, as she watched the contest. “You and _Sherlock_ agreed to it! I _never_ agreed!”

So they ignored Mrs. Hudson’s input as well, John thought a bit irritably, glad to know he wasn’t alone on that front but angry that someone as kind as Mrs. Hudson’s wishes went unanswered or without even a notice.

“If you don’t. Let. Us. Cook.” John continued during his struggle, “I’ll tell. Sherlock. About. Our. Deal.”

“Oh _fine!_ ” Calcifer spat, submitting underneath the skillet and shooting out some embers in retaliation as the orange flames that had been licking the sides of the pan retreated beneath. John blinked against the sudden gust of heat Calcifer had thrown at him, and after a moment, peered down at the fire demon, who had turned into a ring of orange flames on the logs underneath the skillet.

John was amazed at how Calcifer could go from a strong blazing fire, to a little flicker of a flame in mere seconds. Deciding not to waste the opportunity, John reached down into the basket and began to place sausages and bacon onto the already hot pan.

After a moment, Mrs. Hudson thought that bread and the good dishes were called for, so she scurried back to the wardrobe to fetch them. The meat had just begun to sizzle, allowing a delicious aroma to fill the large room that caused his stomach to rumble painfully when John realized it had been a long while since he had seen Mrs. Hudson and took it into his head that perhaps he ought to go after her when she emerged with a few dishes and cutlery as well as a large loaf of bread from the depths of the wardrobe.

“It’s been so long since we used them I forgot where they were!” She said by way of explanation before she tittered in amusement at what to her was the silliness of the castle, but to John was just the continuing strangeness.

“Here’s a curse for you,” Calcifer said, his voice muffed under the pan and the crackling of the meat, “may all your bacon _burn_.”

“Oh be quiet,” John said, frowning slightly as he began scrapping off the bacon and sausages from the pan with a wooden spoon and onto a plate that Mrs. Hudson handed him. “Just a little longer, I want to cook eggs on you next. How would you like your eggs, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked turning to her.

“Over easy, please, John,” she replied with a smile.

“Then over easy it shall be, m’lady,” John responded turning back to the fire, earning a giggle from the motherly old woman.

“I’ll give you over easy,” Calcifer muttered peevishly.

“Oh hush up,” Mrs. Hudson replied, clearly miffed with the demon.

* * *

 After cooking all the bacon, eggs and sausages in the basket, as well as toasting the bread, while hearing some more irritable grumbling from Calcifer, John felt they at last had a proper meal.

“All right,” He said, lifting the pan off Calcifer after he had transferred the last of the food onto a serving plate. “All done.”

“Ah _finally!”_ Calcifer groaned loudly as he stretched high into the chimney, taking up all the space in the hearth with his flames.

“Hey! Hey!” John cried, covering his face with his arm, “take it easy!”

“Oh what’s a little color?” asked a voice suddenly from John’s side. John jumped, almost dropping the plate filled with eggs in his hand as he whirled around to face the voice.

Standing beside him was an elderly gentleman, hunched slightly with a great bushy grey beard and long eyebrows to match.

“Been years since your station in the Sultanates, John,” the man continued in amusement at John’s reaction “some color might be called for.”

John frowned, unsure how to feel about the man. “Sorry, sir, but how did you even get--”

In a flourish, the old man vanished and was replaced by the Wizard Sherlock, who stood straight, tall and proud. John gaped at him, while Sherlock glowed brightly with a large cheeky grin on his face.

“How’d you do that?!” John cried in amazement.

“Cloak,” Sherlock said, shifting his glassy eyed gaze to the cloak wrapped around his thin arm. John’s eyes immediately went to it and studied it with far more scrutiny than he ever thought possible to pay on a cloak.

The cloak in question was a dark navy blue, and made of the smoothest silk John had ever seen--and, having been the son of hatters as well as working in a lady’s hat shoppe all his life, John knew more than a thing or two about cloths--but this was no cloth John had _ever_ seen before. It pooled over Sherlock’s arm like water spilling over the edge of a cliff. The material for it was obviously far too fine, and wouldn’t’ve been possible for his family to have been able to begin to afford to buy to make hats. John immediately reprimanded himself in disgust, furrowing his eyebrows. Material that fine would have been a travesty to waste on a measly _hat._ No, a cloak really was the best thing for it, John decided, it would have been a shame to cut up. He was just glad he wasn’t the poor bastard whose job it would have been to create the cloak in the first place. For whoever he was, he must have gone mad from the act of tearing apart such a fabric, John mused.

“Allows me to hide in plain sight,” Sherlock continued, drawing John out of his madness of cloths and tailors, as the wizard strode to the wardrobe, wrenched open the doubled-doors, and thrust the cloak carelessly into its depths. John was about to cry out at Sherlock’s mistreatment at what was surely a priceless article of clothing, when the cloak danced in the air, turned and hung itself on one of the hangers inside the wardrobe. Then, once the cloak was put away properly, the wardrobe’s door swung shut.

John stared in awe.

He turned back to the wondrous entity beside him, who still had the luminous grin that took up most of his face.

“Amazing,” John said. Sherlock’s smile dipped somewhat.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked in what John thought was a worried tone.

John bristled in embarrassment, his cheeks flushing and ears staining pink. “Sorry, I’ll stop--”

“No,” Sherlock cut him off quickly, slightly sharp with the hurriedness of it as his colorless eyes evaluated the soldier. “It’s...fine.” He said.

Before John could say another word, Sherlock whirled away from him back towards Mrs. Hudson.

John frowned. What had just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, I need a bit of beta'ing with what's to come (I've been cursed with a terrible case of uncertainty and second-guessing). So if you're interested, please send me a note via here or on my tumblr spooktheartiste.tumblr.com (and on days when it's NOT October, I'm sarahtheartiste.tumblr.com)  
> Thanks!
> 
> Oh and before I forget: the Sultanates that Sherlock mentions, he's referring to the Sultanates Of Rashpuht.  
> In Diana Wynne Jones's universe, the Sultanates Of Rashpuht are located in the southern part of the world of Howl's Moving Castle, Castle in the Air, and House of Many Ways (the sequels to HMC), where when described the climate is apparently similar to the Middle East. So since Ingary would be to us England, the Sultanates of Rashpuht would be the Middle East. Hence: Afghanistan or Iraq.


End file.
